


The Palmyra Atoll

by elwinglyre



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cuddling & Snuggling, Evil Mary Morstan, John Watson Whump, John Whump, Kidnapped John Watson, M/M, Palmyra Atoll, Stockholm Syndrome, but it's not so bad, ending in, it's an island paradise, toplock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-10 01:17:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19897477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elwinglyre/pseuds/elwinglyre
Summary: As John's preparing for the wedding, Sherlock is preparing to have his heart broken, and Mary is prepared to do the unthinkable. Intervention required. Enter Sherlock. Set before Sign of Three with a far different outcome. John is drugged, kidnapped, and left on an island, but not just any old island. Third person limited John POVWritten for Fangirlsays for the 2019 Fandom Trumps Hate, who asked for some kidnapped John Whump and Toplock.A thousand thanks to recently_folded for the incredible beta work on this story. She not only edited my mistakes, she helped shape the Pacific-paradise setting, Palmyra Atoll. She also added depth to whole boating experience (which I knew zilch about) along with humor ("Frustration, ahoy!"). Thank you!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fangirl_says](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fangirl_says/gifts).



[](https://imgur.com/CpH5Nny)

John swirls the last of his cold coffee in the cup before he gulps it down with a grimace. His stare out the Starbuck's window is vacant as people buzz like bees back and forth to work and appointments. He plops the cup on the table with a sigh and stretches his aching legs out straight beneath the table. He's not certain how Sherlock managed to convince him that he needs to relax. He's never sure with Sherlock, but it certainly wasn't at Mary's insistence.

"Go on, John," she'd coaxed. "I really don't think you'll find the dress fitting very entertaining. And after all, it's bad luck to see a bride in her dress."

Of course he's heard that stupid superstition before. He's never believed it. Still doesn't. And neither does Sherlock, who rolled his eyes at her words. Sherlock did agree, however, that John needs to "step back."

"The veins on your forehead are throbbing, and you grimaced at master baker Marianna Vaki's suggestions for the cake," Sherlock insisted. "Go to the corner Starbuck's for coffee while I assist Mary at her dress fitting."

John can't wrap his head around Sherlock the wedding planner. His nods of approval have sent John reeling, beginning with the selection of the venue as Goldney Bristow. The too-bright-a-yellow reception hall wasn't enough. No. Sherlock actually high-fived Mary when she suggested including a complimentary colour on the invitations because of the cornflower blue in the wallpaper. Then Sherlock insisted that the groom's and best man's tuxedoes match. Exactly. Now the cake and her dress? Three days ago he'd even caught Sherlock folding napkins. Sherlock? Napkins? Why is he doing all this?

Sherlock has never cared for appearances although he does care what John thinks (at times). It's not unlike when he thought he could wipe away jumping off Bart's roof by drawing a mustache on his face and serving their bloody dinner. True, Sherlock hadn't actually deserved the headbutt that night, but does Sherlock really believe that by planning John's wedding and selecting a photographer he can simply erase the agony of those months he left John believing he was dead? All those times standing by his tombstone weeping compensated for by helping Mary choose which silver table service?

No. He can't believe it. Something is off. Over the last few weeks of planning, John has noticed Sherlock's unusually good humor. No temper tantrums or insults about absence of intellect, even with that ninny of a caterer who thought they should go with "seasonal sauces."

Sherlock seems genuine—emphasis on the "seems." It's not a performance to influence or some sort of subterfuge for a case. But John notes that there is something behind his all-too-happy-to-please attitude that feels completely wrong. At times he'll catch a glimpse of the Sherlock he really knows when he thinks John doesn't see. He looks...sad. John is convinced Sherlock's heart isn't in it.

Not that John would ever blame Sherlock for pretending. God knows, John hates the fussiness of wedding planning yet he insists he's enjoying it. Sherlock knows that. Mary must. As Sherlock has told him so many times before, he's bad at hiding his feelings. He flinches, thinking about being left out of something he doesn't really want to be a part of.

Being present on Portobello Road at Mary's final dress fitting by the legendary Jane Bourvis isn't high on John's list of what constitutes a good time. Even if the lace is "hand-made antique." He'd frankly prefer a few pints at the corner pub. He should be happy that Sherlock is saving him from all this, but instead he's anxious to find out what is motivating Sherlock to do it in the first place.

And tomorrow? Sherlock has planned a day with Mary finalizing the flower selections. Now, it seems, that too is to be done without John.

He sighs. No, he's not that sorry he's being left out. He decides he should make the best of it until Mary reels him in again to pick out the right complimentary colors for the corsages or ask him if they should have monogramed biscuits for favors. He shudders just thinking of it.

He wants to marry Mary. He does. But he needs some space. He shouldn't be resenting Sherlock for recognizing that.

He could get another espresso. Or go back to Barts.

He sighs and decides he could do with a walk in the park instead. That will clear his head and then he can head back into the fray.

He limps out of Starbucks and steps in a puddle. He should have anticipated the omen.

He's not far from Regent's Park when a sleek, black Bentley pulls alongside to pace him. He's not surprised. Even Mycroft can't keep his bloody nose out of the wedding. Must he check on his every movement? John's shoulders tense and his gait becomes clipped. The car slows and maintains a distance of just a few feet. He feels like a bloody Push-Me-Pull-You torn both ways. He is as far from relaxed as a man could possibly be. Maybe he should really go off the deep end and chat up the waterfowl in the park.

The car pulls ahead of him, then stops. John does too. He thrusts his hands into his pockets while he shakes his head in resignation.

These don't look to be Mycroft's usual men. In fact, they aren't men. Two hulking women in trouser suits with white shirts, neckties, and tie-bars climb out and approach him. John expects the usual invitation (or order) from Mycroft to get inside the car. While they have short-trimmed hair and athletic builds, one of them has a daisy tattoo on her wrist. John's attention shifts to the third person who steps out of the car. Bracketed by cherry red spike heels and matching dress, those legs would recognizable anywhere. The Woman.

She steps up to John, heels clicking on the pavement. "I owe you this," she says. She pulls her arm back and slaps him hard. The shock of the loud crack hurts his ears more than the slap to his face, and the sharp snap of his neck stings.There was force behind it, and John reflexively touches his cheek where her hand landed. Better than looking down the barrel of a gun he supposes.

"That was uncalled-for," he says. "What's this about?"

"It's for getting yourself mixed up with a psychopath."

"Are you talking about Moriarty or yourself?" Or Sherlock, but John keeps that quip to himself. He's never really believed that and he hates jokes at Sherlock's expense. He's the only one allowed that privilege. Well, and Mary. He definitely has no intention of belittling Sherlock in Irene Adler's presence.

Miss Adler visibly stifles laugh as one of the women grabs John's left arm and yanks it painfully back and up between his shoulder blades. In a blink, the motion is followed by a sharp stab in his thigh by the woman with the daisy tattoo.

An injection? Déjà vu. Abducted once again. John rolls his eyes at Adler as he trips over the kerb. Why can't people be more original?

He hates to hit a woman, but he does. It's mostly reflex—he actually didn't intend to, but she jabbed him. He's almost out of her grasp when the second woman trips him and pushes him down. His knees slam into the pavement.

"Doctor Watson bested by women. What would Sherlock say?"

"He'd say I'm an equal opportunity victim."

Adler laughs. One of them grabs him under his arms and begins to push and shove him into the backseat of the sedan, and John pushes and shoves back. It's a scene that gains the attention of the few people on the street. John's hoping he might get help, but he's losing ground. He's beginning to feel groggy and nauseated when they manage to push him down into the seat and drive off. He rewards their efforts by spewing coffee and danish onto the carpet.

It's a twisty-turning ride, and it takes far too long for the world to go dark. His pulse pounds in his temples, and his breathing feels erratic. He thinks that he might be having a reaction to whatever concoction they used on him. He hates the world, but he hates Irene Adler more.

\---------------------

His head continues to throb along with his muscles, as though he's chased Sherlock across half of the rooftops of London. When he tries to sit up, he heaves what's left of his breakfast off the side of the small cot he apparently is lying on. He recognizes the hum of a jet engine. He opens his eyes. Some sort of small jet.

He's not certain how long he was unconscious, but there's no sign of Adler. The woman with the daisy tattoo sits not six feet away, reading.

He pulls at the cord that binds his wrists. They're tied together in front of him, which is better than the pain he'd be in were they pulled behind his back. At least that's something. He's surprised to find his ankles aren't bound.

The thud of feet approaches from behind him, and John stares up at the woman who twisted his arm roughly behind his back when they were grappling in front of the car.

"You're awake," says Captain Obvious. "You're probably looking for an explanation."

"And I believe you're not going to give me one."

She blinks and her uni-brow furrows in confusion. "Yes. I was told to give you this letter."

"You're stepping in my vomit," John points out with as much cheer as he can muster. Serves her right for trying to dislocate his shoulder.

It's an older military jet of some type. Spartan. He's let down that his abduction seems to be on a limited budget. He doesn't expect a sky-yacht done in art deco with euphoria-inducing windows, but he thinks that John Watson ought to be worth more than a stripped-down, twin-engine transport.

Captain Obvious lifts her foot. "Huh." She pulls the letter out of her breast pocket and begins to hand it to John.

"I'd love to take it, but as I'm sure you can see, my hands are tied."

John feels as if he's been kidnapped by idiots. Is this how Sherlock feels about the criminal classes all the time? Which makes him, what? A bigger idiot? As Captain Obvious unties him, she yells for someone to come clean up John's mess. That finished, she turns to leave.

John clears his throat. "Aren't you forgetting something?" John asks, struggling to sit up. The woman glares back at him. "The letter?"

This does not bode well. It's been John's experience that novice criminals are often the ones most likely to kill you. Accidentally. He expected more from Adler. Who was actually behind all of this?

He wants to know where she is. At least she's intelligent.

Captain Obvious hands John the letter, and John's stomach drops when he recognizes the handwriting on the envelope.

It's Sherlock's.

The longer he sits up, the more wildly his head spins. He's thankful he has nothing left to vomit. He opens the envelope with shaking hands and unfolds the letter.

> Dear John,
> 
> I am most sorry for your current circumstances, but know that it was imperative that I remove you from danger immediately. I trust you will find the accommodations to your liking. I will be in contact with you and explain all as soon as the threat has passed. Until then, know that what I have done, I have done for your own well-being.
> 
> And the sea will tell,
> 
> Sherlock

John rereads the letter. He's almost certain that it's Sherlock's handwriting, but it makes no sense. Why would he enlist Irene Adler and a gang of thugs?

Unless this letter isn't from Sherlock and it's some sort of ruse instead. The Woman is clever. She could easily find someone to forge a letter.

The jet lands to refuel, but there's no opportunity to escape. Wherever they're heading, John is certain it's no place he'll want to be.

The capstone of the whole debacle comes over a day later when Captain Obvious and her tattooed partner walk John off the plane into an oppressively tropical climate and load him aboard a small freighter that barely looks seaworthy. It's covered in rust and lists to one side. He would almost think this was a joke but for the unsettling groan of the bilge pump clearly struggling to keep the craft afloat.

John wonders just how long this little boat trip is going to take.He's shown to his bunk in a dingy hole of an inside cabin with no windows or ventilation. It's hot, damp, and stinks of rank bedding and mildew.

He begins to believe that Sherlock might indeed be behind it all: he's never cared much for physical amenities.

Everyone seems to have forgotten he's in here except for his jailer with the daisy tattoo. She brings meals and ignores all his questions. He keeps demanding to speak with someone in charge. She finally brings in one of the French crewmen who only speaks a bit of English.

No one seems to have brought along anything for him. Not that kidnappers generally pack for you, but it this were Sherlock, he'd remember to send some clothes, wouldn't he? After a few days underway, some of the crew take pity and donate their extras.

As each day ticks past, John's misery increases. _And the sea will tell_. What does that even mean? Sounds threatening. Most likely one of Sherlock's bloody cryptic messages that he's supposed to figure out how to decode. He's not allowed on deck even though a heavy ocean swell pitches the ship and he's not convinced it won't capsize. He's seasick beyond caring that he'd drown. In fact, he's pretty sure that it would be a relief.

He has no idea what day it is nor how many days have gone by, no sense of time other than when he's brought meals. His solitude gives him far too much time to think.

He's still uncertain who is behind his kidnapping until daisy tattoo comes into John's cabin with his dinner (that he won't keep down)(again).

"I have some entertainment for you, too. A message from your _friend_."She takes a mobile from her jacket and plays a recording for him. It's Sherlock, his face filling the screen.

"You should be safely in the middle of the Pacific by now and nearing your destination. I know you're wondering why I've done this to you when there's so little time left before your wedding. John, you can't go through with it. I can't let you marry her. She's not what you think she is. In fact, she's a danger to you. I am sorry I had to take such drastic measures, but it was necessary. For now, that's all I can say. When you reach the island, I will tell you more."

After watching it, John is convinced Sherlock has finally gone around the twist. Right before his wedding? Why would he even do it at all? He's actually topped faking his own death by abducting his best friend on the eve of his wedding. For what reason? To bloody save him from his own fiancée?

\------------------------------

The initial message John writes is easy to read through the glass of the bottle. The words are printed neatly with the nub of a pencil he'd found: _please foreward notes inside to Sherlock Holmes, 221B Baker Street, London, United Kingdom._ It's written on the yellowed notebook paper he found left behind in this place he hates more than his own life at the moment. Writing the fucking note makes him more seasick, but it at least gives him some sort of purpose.

Rolled up inside the bottle are several sheets of John's letters. In the first, he's left off the salutation. John hadn't felt Sherlock deserved one. 

> I often think of different ways to kill you. It's what I have left. It's you who've put me here. It's not like it hasn't happened before. I should have known something was off when Irene Adler walked up and slapped me in the face, then threw me into the backseat of a sedan that looked suspiciously like Mycroft's. I should have kneed her in the groin (she thinks she has big bollocks). My abductors returned my kindness with a jab in my thigh from the needle that failed to knock me out effectively. It took almost a half hour, during which I vomited three times, once all over her shoes.
> 
> This is what happens to me whenever I get mixed up with anything you do. Just weeks before my wedding, I'm drugged, tied up, and shoved onto a tiny jet, then transferred to a boat that's barely sea-worthy to be locked away in a cabin where I'm tossed and pitched and rolled about like rubbish. I have more bloody bruises than I did that time we fought the Golem. That doesn't even include the twenty-three hours of seasickness every day. The one hour I'm not sick, I'm praying to die because the bed is so hard it cracks my nuts.
> 
> They tell me they're about to drop me off on a small island. That's deserted. But not to worry! One of the crew (the only one who speaks English is the one who has been with me since the beginning, Irene Adler's strong-arm with the daisy tattoo) tells me a sailboat is docked there all ready to be my own personal luxury hotel. Which, by the way, she told me isn't sea-worthy. Bloody hell. She said the island is a paradise and a beautiful place for a honeymoon. Ironic since oh, that's right. I'M NOT GOING ON ONE. My bride is going to be left standing at the altar because of you unless you get your plotting arse in gear and come get me out of here.
> 
> What must Mary think? What did you tell her? And why? Dear Lord, why? All because, what? Some cryptic message from you about saving my life? Please, someone save my life. Not from her. From you!
> 
> I don't care what you think your reasons are. There is no good reason. Kidnapped. Again. Only this time you're not rescuing me, you're the cause.
> 
> I hate you,
> 
> John Watson

Two days later, he adds a second letter. In this one, his handwriting isn't as neat, and he's wadded up the note and simply stuffed it into the bottle. 

> You fucking bastard,
> 
> The wedding you helped Mary plan is most probably only days from now. I got another one of your bloody cryptic messages (not even a respectable letter like I've written you) about how you can't tell me the reason. Blah, blah, blah. Why must you wait to tell me in person? Why can't you tell me until I get there? Where the bloody hell is the "there" and when in God's name should I expect to be free of this pustulant barely-floating death trap? 
> 
> I should have expected as much from you.
> 
> Hard to keep track of time, but judging by when I'm brought meals, I've been on this damned tub for nearly ten days now. The men who serve me meals give me no straight answers—especially since I DON'T SPEAK FRENCH. They keep repeating something that I'm pretty sure means island paradise. I doubt that. The only paradise I want right now is my hands around your neck.
> 
> At least they let me up topside now, even though I've threatened to jump overboard on more than one occasion. Why should I let them have all the fun?
> 
> Fuck you,
> 
> John

He keeps the bottle under his berth and only pulls it out when two of the crew bring him on deck to show him his destination. The roar of the engines has been replaced by the welcome clanging of repairs, the shouts of orders, and a few choice curses. Over the last week he's heard enough French to suspect that swearing in French is a real art. It doesn't really sound like you're being insulted.

He blinks and shades his eyes with his hand. It's so bright that it takes him a few minutes to adjust. After the musty air belowdecks, the humid, warm breeze is welcome. It's steady but languid and carries with it fragrances of plants strange to him. And iodine. He's not sure why he smells iodine mixed into the general low tide sort of smell of the water's edge.

His gaze takes in the island that lies before him. It must be miles and miles long, he realizes. The water grades from a shocking aqua to pale blue, almost white, where it turns shallow at the shore. It shimmers and sparkles. He can see occasional bright, silver flashes beneath the water—probably fish swimming but moving too quickly to be sure. The anchor chain arcs out ahead to where it lies partly buried in the sandy bottom. Otherwise the bottom looks dark with some sort of grassy plants. It's like a completely different world. Even the birds don't sound or look the same as anything he's ever known.

They put him in a patched and oil-stained inflatable dinghy and, with old, broken slats of wood from a loading pallet, paddle him toward what looks to be the classical greeting-card tropical island covered in palm trees and white sand beaches. It's exactly the type of place Sherlock would pick given his love of pirates. John takes a long look into the water at the colorful fish and coral beneath them.

He feels awkward hiding his bottle between his legs as two men paddle to the island.

Despite being angry, John breathes in the ocean air and sighs at the cloud-puffed sky. This is so much better than the tub he was on.

The iodine in the air grows stronger, and John asks about the odor. One of the men looks at him puzzled, but the other points to the shore where the plants from the bottom seem to have washed ashore to ferment in the sun.

They row to the island across the long, pale sandbank until they come to a channel. John watches a fifteen foot shark swim by them. Nice place, he thinks. The channel is long and the tropical trees and plants are dense on both sides. It's like a jungle, or what John imagines a jungle would be. Hot and sticky. The channel opens into another large lagoon. The water deepens. They point to a modest-sized sail boat with two masts moored to a long rickety wooden deck made of boards salvaged from shipping crates and driftwood.A few of the boards are missing, and John isn't sure that it would even be safe to walk on. They say something in French he can't understand.

The sun warms his face, and it's a pleasant change from the dim belowdecks aboard the ship anchored beyond the reef, but there's no Sherlock on the flimsy dock, no Sherlock on the shore. Not that he's surprised.

"Get out. This your new home. It's rather nice, I'm told, for an older ketch. You'll find food and what you need inside," says Captain Obvious as the boat bumps into the dock. "Good luck."

"Bon débarras," shout the men as John stumbles out. They leave him standing on the dock with his message in a bottle.

"Yes, goodbye," he answers what he assumes are their farewell good wishes. He feels a bit of relief to have no "minders" any longer.

John sighs and carefully picks his way down the dock. He climbs aboard the sun-bleached fiberglass deck and ducks under the awning. It's nice enough for a sail boat. He steps over a low wall around the cockpit and opens the main hatch to his new living quarters. The interior layout looks functional and, John notes, employs clever and economical use of space. It looks old but well-loved. He's surprised at the amount of headroom: Sherlock could easily stand in here.

As John climbs down the companionway ladder, he surveys his new surroundings. So much better than the dark dungeon he was in. On the port side he walks through an adequate galley with a two-burner propane stove, what looks like a fridge lid, and a decent-sized sink with hand-pump. The galley is well-stocked. John digs around and finds canned goods in the bilge along with tins and jars. Not one can has a label. The contents of each ziplock baggie and rust-spotted can are hand-labeled in permanent marker. In French. Frustration ahoy!

He makes himself at home and finds more doubled ziplock bags of flour and sugar (he assumes it is since he can't read the labels) and tea, although he's not sure what kind. Someone has added bay leaves to what looks like powdered milk. Possibly. And pilot bread. There's biscuits in tins. And crisps, which he opens and finds stale despite the extra ziplock bags. He sits down at the dining table to take a break from the heat and puts his feet up on the extra bench.

He eats another stale crisp and tries a couple pieces of the bland pilot bread, then seals them back up before setting out to explore more. To starboard there is an enclosed head with a shower pan, hanging locker, and sink with hand pump.

There's a bedroom of sorts in one of the cabins. Someone thought enough to pack some pants, shorts, shirts, and swim trunks in the locker beneath one of the berths. He finds a couple of hats to keep off the sun.

The cabin windows are crusted with salt, but sun manages to shine through. There's a generator for power and some petrol along with extra propane.With the heat, he's not keen on cooking. There's a tank of fresh water nearby on the shore, but he's not sure if it's potable. He'll need to boil anything he consumes. Best to do that in the mornings. He does find some bottled water that is warm, but will do for now.

He decides to take a look around outside. It's just as hot outside as in, but at least there's a breeze.

From the dock he can see farther up on shore. There's a small bungalow on some higher ground too not far from his ketch. He knows rot all about sailing, but he knows enough to recognise that the outboard hanging on the taffrail has been disabled. He also reads the name of the boat from a life ring mounted next to it: _Esperanza._ He would think it would be some sort of French name, not Spanish. He recalls that it means hope or expectation. What does that bloody mean?

Well, there'll be no hope of getting off this island unless he suddenly becomes some sort of mechanical genius or learns to sail. He wonders when Sherlock plans to show up. Is he already here? When will he arrive? How? What will John do when he finally faces his kidnapper?

John sighs and continues his investigation. The island is undeniably beautiful but empty. There's no one around to hear him scream. So he does. He yells out his frustrations at the world, at Sherlock, at his captors, at the ratty French-speaking crew—everyone. When he's done, his arms don't feel as heavy and his shoulder doesn't burn.

He doesn't get far before he realizes he should have brought one of the sun hats and looked around to find more appropriate footwear. He grabs a dried palm frond and uses it to shade his head.

His shoes are useless here. They're filled with sand and soon, so are his socks. Taking off his shoes isn't the solution. The sand is hot. Only burying his feet in the sand brings relief. He puts his shoes back on without his socks and suffers the sand although it weights him down and makes his toes feel as though they are encased in concrete.

The vegetation elsewhere is dense, and it's much easier to walk along the white beaches of the lagoon. He's surprised to find recent signs that people have been here other than to stock his boat. There's a garden with some melons growing along with a few vegetables. It's rather overgrown, so whoever planted it must have abandoned the place months ago.

Suddenly the sky opens up and it's raining. Hard. It beats him and whips up the water, but it's not the cold rain of London. It's like a pummeling warm shower. He races back to his boat. The upside is that the rain has washed the sweat and sand from him.

He towels off the rain and wanders around the cabin, where he finds an assortment of reading material. The rain beats on the cabintop as he thumbs through magazines, novels, and assorted books about the plants and marine life of the Pacific. The photos in the illustrated book on tropical fish are stunning.

He's browsing the books when the title of one jumps out at him: _And the Sea Will Tell_. Sherlock's riddle! He picks it up and reads the back cover: 

> Alone with her new husband on a tiny Pacific atoll, a young woman combs the beach and finds an odd aluminum container washed up on the lagoon, something glitters in the sand. A gold tooth in a scorched human skull.

It's about an island murder. Of course Sherlock would leave him a book about an island murder.

The rain blows off to sea as quickly as it came in, leaving everything even more humid and sticky than before. 

He spends the rest of the day walking along the vast beaches that surround this end of the lagoon where his ketch is moored along with some of its smaller inlets. This time he wears a hat and some sandals he's found. He takes them off to wade through the warm water, and realizes quickly that he'll need to keep track of the tides lest he be marooned away from the ketch by high water.

The lagoon is spectacular, and it's easy to lose track of the time. The sun is high, the sand is blindingly white, and the aquamarine water has emerald green patches like glass. John can vividly see the life beneath. He wishes he knew the names of the colorful fish. He had little time to appreciate them on his little trip in from the freighter.

As he splashes across an inlet, he notes how deep the water is. It's only to his ankles, but he doesn't want to be stranded on one of these smaller islets when the water rises. He keeps close track of where he's been and where his ketch is moored. He's surprised how the tide rises and falls. It's slow and steady. As the afternoon progresses, he finds an airstrip, although it's overgrown with the fern that covers the islands along with other foliage John isn't familiar with. It clearly hasn't been used in some time.

He decides he'd better head back to the boat. Throwing his message bottle into this lagoon will do no good. He needs to be on the ocean side of the island. He can head up along the channel and investigate tomorrow. For now, he's sweating and thirsty, and the bottle of water he brought from the boat is long gone. John sits down in the white sand for a few moments in the shade of coconut palms. He's leaning back with his sandals behind him as his toes dip in the water. He imagines this place long ago, pirates on these banks looking over this very lagoon. Maybe there's buried treasure? His first impression that this is just the sort of place Sherlock would love is correct. Aye, matie, leave it to Sherlock to put him on an island once home to pirates. He shakes his head in resignation.

John stands and brushes away the white sand that clings to his legs. The water is barely inches deep as he wades across the inlet, and the blinding sands beneath create a walkway. The water cools his feet as it slips into his sandals. He sighs and looks up at the sun. The sky is hazy blue, yet clear. Hard to believe so much water poured from it just hours ago.

Funny thing is that he should be a lot more upset about all this than he is now. What he feels is almost relief, and he's not sure from what. Civilization? All the tension he's felt over the last months has gone. Watching the water lap the shore and sea turtles swim, he's already finding himself beginning to let go some of his anger. The only downsides he's found so far are the mosquitoes and the humid heat.

He's considering a swim when he sees a small shark out in the deeper waters of the lagoon. He's not so sure that he should go in if there are sharks here. Pity. He'll need to observe them. He has time. Maybe they weren't around often, or only at certain times of the tide. He should give it go sometime. It's a shame to have all this and not be able to swim.

He's nearing the boat when he sees footprints on the higher ground above the tideline. They may have been here a while but with the sudden rains, he doubts it. He's not alone after all. They're certainly big enough to be Sherlock's, but how would he know? It's dense with undergrowth here. It's possible someone could have been here for days. Somebody had to stock the boat and tend the water tank. John makes a mental note to keep an eye open.

He walks through the scrub and across the dock to get a bucket of water to sluice off the sand and sweat before going into the boat. Each time he picks his way along it, he says a little prayer that the dock will hold. He's decided to eat and take a kip. There's not much else to do. Still, he keeps himself alert just in case he has a visitor. He looks through the books that were left and picks up the novel. He even finds a pair of his reading glasses. He sighs. What he really could use are sunglasses.

\----------------------------------

It doesn't take him long to realize that the book is set on this very island. He becomes lost in the story and reads it all over the next few days. He waits and watches for more signs of people, but none appear. No Sherlock and no more footprints in the sand. He uses the novel and the various books as guides to what's around him. He knows where he is now: Palmyra Atoll.

He feels at times that someone is watching. He wonders if it's Sherlock waiting—for what he doesn't know. He was to be married soon. It may even be today, he thinks. Why isn't Sherlock here? John needs answers. He could be staying in one of the bungalows on the island. John's checked around them. They are locked tight with no sign of anyone being around, though. All but the largest one near the boat look like no one has used them for some time.

He boils water. Opens a few cans of surprise dinner: "pêches" and "haricots blancs/ sauce tomate." He hopes that means something like fish to go with the pasta in tomato sauce. Nope. Tonight it's peaches and beans.

As the days wind along with still no Sherlock and still no more footprints in the sand, he decides he must be alone. He picks the lock on one of the bungalows for entertainment. He's happy to find sunglasses and some containers to carry water, but no sign of Sherlock.

Insects and birds thrive here—it's a refuge for wildlife. John uses the guides left for him. He doesn't have much to do but identify species. Most birds are some form of booby, which John finds hysterical.

"Boobies," he giggles like a school boy. Brown boobies, masked boobies, and red-footed boobies. Oh, and then there were the black and brown noddies. Every day he recognizes them and begins giving them names like Sam and Ralph and Eleanor.

One day on an excursion to the more eastern section of the island, he spots an airstrip. He also finds a curious turtle pond on the east side where dozens of green sea turtles are milling around.

It was that day, too, that John notes that the sharks only seem to traverse the channels that rise and lower with the tide. He surmises that it's their feeding ground.He's also seen a few stingrays in the shallows, basking in the warmer waters. He's shocked when he witnesses one stingray make dinner of one of the smaller sharks. The water grows red from the shark's blood as the ray skewers the shark with its barb. It is most unsettling.

The water in the sharks' channels is as deep or deeper than his waist so John waits for low tide to cross those: the sharks only seem to use them when the water's deep.

He's almost sure enough to believe it's safe to swim in the lagoon after the tides fall, since the sharks and stingrays seem to stick to the inlets during high tide. He longs to swim with the green sea turtles and yellow goatfish. He read in one of the books that people often swim in lagoons. He wishes he had some snorkeling gear.

Life is about taking chances. How much more dangerous could it be than chasing after Sherlock Holmes? It takes him two more days to decide he's going to do it.

John has always wanted to swim in the altogether. If there would ever be a time to do it unobserved, this is it. It's mid-day when he finally strips off his shorts and tank top to cautiously enter the lagoon. It cools his sunburn, soothes the itch from the mosquito bites. The fish swim around him, unafraid in the pristine water. John can't help but be in awe of it all. This is truly a paradise, albeit a lonely one.

He's treading water thinking. Where is Sherlock? He said he'd be here. Of course the wanker isn't. He wonders what Mary is doing. What she did when he went missing. What Sherlock told her. Why all the mystery? What is Sherlock protecting him from?Everyone agreed that Moriarty was dead and gone, so it couldn't be anything to do with him. So many questions to mull over, yet he remains aware of what's around him. He really doesn't want to meet up with a shark.

When he swims back to shore, he doesn't immediately see the large stingray in the shallow water. At first he's startled, but he's read that they don't attack people and remains calm as he swims in an arc to avoid it. Instead of fleeing, the stingray rushes toward him and flicks its tail manically at John. John recalls in horror the bloodied water from the stingray's attack on the shark.

Time slows. It spears him. Once, twice, and a third final sting. With a splash, it flips around and swims off, leaving John gasping. He doesn't feel the pain. Not at first. Just cold. So cold in the warm water. And the water is no longer that glorious bright blue but dark red from his blood. He keeps his head above water until his feet thankfully touch the bottom. He struggles to shore and drags himself across the white sands, bloodying them as well.

So much for bloody paradise.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who would like to know more about the atoll [ here's a link ](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/d/d3/Palmyra_Atoll_Visitor_Access_Map.jpg)to a map of the island.  
> 

His eyes open to the sound of...someone else. He doesn't recall crawling to the ketch. He turns his head to see a mop of black curly hair and a lanky form in cut-off shorts and t-shirt. He's also as pink as a lobster.

"I applied pressure and stopped the bleeding," he says. "You have lost enough blood to warrant a transfusion, but that's impossible under the circumstances. You need to drink—immediately—and I've made up an electrolyte solution to alleviate the risk of dilutional hyponatremia. It was quite fortunate that it missed your trunk. You did, however, have an allergic reaction. Most unusual. Fortunately there was an epi-pen at the ready in the med-kit and I administered it. We shall watch you for other signs. I cleaned the wound properly, avoiding iodine-based antiseptics, so no infection should set in, but we do have proper antibiotics if there should..."

"Shut it. Just shut it. When did you get here?"

"I've always been here. I camped over on the east side. I wasn't certain if you were up to speaking to me, which was confirmed by what you'd written and stuffed inside that bottle."

"You read it?"

"Days and days ago. It was addressed to me." Sherlock hands him a bottle of water. "Drink."

"I feel like a sledgehammer hit me."

"Your leg should be tender as well."

"My head hurts too much to care about that. So you found me and brought me back, and have been sneaking in and out of here for days. Wait. Were you following me at the lagoon? You watched me swimming?"

"I hardly think that having seen you swimming naked was a problem since I carried you that way from where you fell in the sand." He frowns. "I said drink."

John isn't up to thinking too hard about a Sherlock Holmes who watches him skinny dipping in a lagoon. He's not sure what to make of it all as he struggles with the bottle. "I can't unscrew this blasted cap."

Sherlock takes it from him, unscrews it, and and thrusts it back. "Drink," he orders.

John takes one swig, then two. He takes a breath, then downs the rest of the bottle. "Happy? You owe me one hell of a lot of an explanation—none of which could possibly excuse what you've done." He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Kidnapping me, making me leave my bride at the altar, sticking me on some deserted island, then spying on me."

"I saved you from a fate worse than death and brought you to a paradise. People used to come and go here, but no longer. This is now considered one of the largest protected areas on the planet. I'll have you know that one needs special permission to visit here."

"Mycroft," John moans. "I'm really not up to hearing this."

At Mycroft's name, Sherlock nods and, after refilling his rehydration bottle, leaves him to rest. A few hours later John wakes again to Sherlock checking the wound on his leg.

"Why can't you be like a normal person and just talk to me?"

"I promise I will explain everything, John, but you really need rest more right now."

"Rest. Now you want me to rest. What about knocking me out and then sticking me on that cut-rate jet?"

"We needed to be as inconspicuous as possible. It was imperative that no one follow. I am sorry, but you have a propensity for making friends wherever you go. Loose lips, as they say. The fewer who spoke to you, the better."

John sniffs. He hates this. So he was stuck on a boat with people who didn't speak English because he's too friendly?

"Why Irene Adler?"

"She was the one who confirmed my suspicions. I needed proof for you. You needed proof."

"You were our bloody wedding planner! Why do that if you felt she was a danger to me?"

"I had to keep a close watch on her. Mycroft assisted, as did Irene."

John's head pounds when he sits up. "Oh, it's 'Irene' now? Are you on a first name basis now that you're both in the Not Dead Club? Bloody hell, can you please give me some paracetamol or something for my head? I can't argue with you properly while I'm in pain like this."

"Anything for you, John." He unscrews the top then hands John a bottle of water before rummaging around in a med kit to find some tablets. He rips the foil open with his teeth and hands them both to John. Sherlock watches him as he's taking them as if he has never seen anyone take meds in his life.

"Anything for me?" John says bitterly. "Where'd this bloody bottled water come from? I ran out days ago and have had to boil that mosquito soup from the tank ashore in this fucking heat. What are you talking about, anything for me? What the hell does that even mean to you? And couldn't you at least have left me some sunglasses?"

"It means I'm truly sorry that it had to happen this way. I had no choice." He scratched his head. "I have some water left in my camp. I brought a few in my knapsack."

"How convenient. What else do you have? Take away? And we're here why? Because Mary was going to kill me?" John spits out.

"I doubt that, but one can ever be sure," Sherlock says. "I think she did care for you, but..."

"But. No. Just no. Sherlock..." John feels like he's pleading and hates it, and his head pounds, but he needs to know. "Why? What makes you think this? Tell me now."

"Because she wasn't who you thought she was."

"And God knows _you_ are."

"I am not a cold-blooded contract assassin who once worked for James Moriarty."

He's feeling woozy again. "What in hell did you give me?"

Sherlock blinks. "Are you accusing me of drugging you?"

"You've done it before."

"True. But I haven't now. You are merely exhausted from the trauma and still dehydrated. You lost a lot of blood. Your immune system has been taxed. You know as well as I that if I gave you something in those pills it would take more than a few minutes to take effect. Lie back and let the paracetamol work."

John sniffs and lies down again. He squints, looking over at Sherlock sitting in a wicker chair not far from bed in the bow.

"You really need to use some sort of sunscreen," John says. "I don't know why I didn't see you hiding behind all that green foliage. You're glowing like a damned red beacon."

Sherlock pushes his thumb into his forearm, leaving behind a white thumbprint. "I _have_ been using sunscreen. Not very effective. The burn is painful, but not nearly as irritating as these mosquito bites." He begins to scratch them at the reminder.

"Not nearly painful or irritating enough," John sniffs and closes his eyes. It's so bright the light still filters in behind his eyelids. "When _are_ we getting off this island?"

"We aren't. Not until Mycroft lets us know it's safe to leave."

John covers his eyes with his arm, successfully blocking out all light. "Not that again. Why am I not safe? Oh, that's right. It's my hired-assassin fiancée. She's out to do what? Off me?"

"You aren't the only one in danger. I'm afraid I made Mary rather angry with me. Mycroft thought it best that I hide out with you," he says sheepishly.

"What do you think she'd do to you? Shoot you in the heart?"

Sherlock pauses. "She was going to _marry_ you," Sherlock says quietly.

John removes his arm and opens his eyes. "What does that mean?"

Sherlock blushes. John wouldn't have thought it possible to discern underneath that sunburn. Could Sherlock actually feel something romantic for him? John has wondered this on more than one occasion. Friends have certainly have suggested it over the years. But if he does care about John, why not just tell him? Sherlock has never seemed one to balk at rejection. Not like John.

"I have proof, John. Her own words. But right now you need to rest."

"Later," John yawns. He is suddenly so tired. "Always later."For a change, he really doesn't want an argument. He drifts off, leaving the elephant in the room ignored once again.

\-----------------------------

He has nightmares of sand and blood. Part of it's his past; the other part is the novel he read about this island. It all melds together. A crack of a rifle and hard thud to the ground. Blinding pain that shoots from his shoulder to his fingertips. Then another series of dreams seep in. All repetitious. Tedious, as Sherlock would say. Dreams where John dabs salve all over Sherlock's arms and legs. He's done it so much in the past, it's a part of their shared history. Instead of wounds it's mosquito bites. He sleeps fitfully through the dreams. He's unsure how many times he wakes to Sherlock forcing water or his nasty salty hydration stuff down him. He is sure that Sherlock hasn't left his side. He helps him get up to piss on more than one occasion. He's always hovering beside the bed when he wakes—curls unruly and wild from the humidity of the ocean air along with white worry-lines creasing his lobster-red face.

At least John's head no longer pounds. He's just bone tired and weak as a bird from the blood loss and allergic reaction to the ray's venom. It's night when he wakes again to Sherlock lightly snoring in the wicker chair next to the bed. His eyes fly open, and Sherlock is once again at John's side.

"Drink this," he says, giving John a sip of water. He takes a drink, then closes his eyes to drift off to swabbing salve on Sherlock's freckled arms.

In the morning he's greeted by Sherlock holding a plate full of beans and canned pears. He's wearing a silly camo sunhat that flops over his face. John blinks up into the light as Sherlock grips him under his arms to help him sit, knocking the hat off his head. Birds roosting in the palm trees outside sing out. At least someone is happy.

"More water?" John asks in disgust as he looks at the glass Sherlock thrusts under his nose. Sherlock's hand trembles as he does it. "I think I've pissed at least enough to fill the lagoon."

"Hardly. But it has been impressive. We need to be sure you've eliminated the last of the poison, though."

John picks up his fork. "Aren't you going to eat?" he asks.

"I already have."

"Sure you did." He sets down his fork and looks Sherlock over more closely. He'd missed the signs. The sunburn hid the pallor. His itching from the bug bites explained the nervous scratching. But the shaking, his clipped speech?

"I did. I had some of the biscuits in the tin."

"A man can't live on biscuits alone."

"I believe he could with the proper supplements." The wicker chair groans as Sherlock sits forward. He's fidgeting and he grips the arms of the chair far too tightly. "Your colour is much better this morning. I was concerned last night. After you eat, I need to change your bandages and apply more antibiotic to the wound. I believe the stingray mistook you for a shark."

"How long have you been off?"

Sherlock hesitates. John knows the look well. It's a Sherlock not sure if he's ready to tell him the truth. He seems to struggle with himself for a few moments. "Recently. A few weeks. I had a relapse. Of course you realize it." He sighs. "I knew I wouldn't be able to hide it from you. That's another reason why..."

"Mycroft wanted you here. _Christ_ , Sherlock."

Sherlock reaches into the pocket of shorts and removes his mobile and begins to tap with his trembling fingers.

"I doubt you have a signal." John sits up a bit more. 

"Correct. But it still has a charge, and I said there was a video I needed you to watch." Sherlock presses his lips together as he hands John his mobile.

John closes his eyes, his own hand refusing to lift from his lap. He can't seem to will it to take the device. Sherlock's shaking hand holds it for him.

"Watch," Sherlock says, as he taps play.

John sees Irene Adler and Mary together in some sort of corridor. Possibly Barts. It must be Barts. The shaky video is unlike Sherlock. Done in haste, his thumb partially obscures the corner of the screen.

"I have no choice," Mary says, voice echoing off the corridor walls. Her voice sounds hollow and distant, but it's his Mary. She's wearing a dress she bought on an outing with John. He recalls how she twirled around and around in it at Harrod's, and how the golden swallows on the dark blue print seemed to actually glide and dive as she spun. He recalls how he'd laughed and said, "Buy it."

John sighs. He'd _liked_ that dress. 

"Either my past is revealed by Magnussen to John," she says, "or I finish the job I was hired to do." Her expression doesn't change. It's flat, emotionless.

Irene steps closer to Mary, but it doesn't block the view of Mary's face. Sherlock's thumb moves from the corner of the recording.

"Magnussen effectively threatened his life. I won't risk losing John."

"There are always other solutions," Adler says. "Go to Sherlock. Explain the situation."

"If I do that, he'll tell John." Her voice is firm, determined. "I can't allow that. You can't stop me."

"Oh, but I can," Adler says, and crosses her arms.

"You have more to lose than I do," Mary states. "Your partner, Kate, and your daughter. You really think you can keep them safe?" It's a Mary foreign to John. Her threat is cold, mechanical.

Irene Adler visibly flinches, but presses ahead. "You think Magnussen will destroy John? No. What will destroy John is losing Sherlock. You know what John was like when you met him. How depressed he was."

"That was before I came into his life. I brought him back. Now he has me," Mary says.

"You can't honestly believe that."

"He'll be fine."

"What about Sherlock? I thought you'd become close."

"Sherlock? He'd understand. If our roles were switched, he'd do it to save John."

"No, he wouldn't. There's always another way, and he'd find it."

"Please. It will be a mercy killing. After John and I are married, he'll begin using again. Once an addict, always an addict."

The video ends. John feels bereft. The woman he saw wasn't the Mary he knew. Not a woman who'd do—what? Plan to murder his best friend but wait until after the wedding and Sherlock's usefulness to her is gone?

His heart is racing. He feels like he's panicking. But they're on the island. Safe.

"Is she yours?" He can't believe that's the first thing he's asking Sherlock. What does that say about him? That's he's more worried the possibility that Sherlock has a love child with Irene Adler than Mary's threats?

"Don't be ridiculous, John." He snorts. "Not my area."

"And what is your area, exactly?"

"You've known for a long time."

John snorts and raises his eyebrow.

"You are," Sherlock whispers.

John suspects he may be having a heart attack.

"John?" Sherlock calls from far away. "John!"

Of course he bloody passes out.

\-------------------------

Over the next few days, they don't speak of any of it.

Every time John closes his eyes he watches the video unfold. He can't help replaying it. With his eyes open, he hears it. John's certain it's the same for Sherlock, but he's gauging John's reactions. He will catch Sherlock watching him, and it's not a Sherlock who's deducing. He's a reflective, contemplative Sherlock who measures John. At rest, walk, or making tea, he hovers behind as if he thinks John could shatter at any moment and he will need to be there to pick him up.

He's also a careful Sherlock. One who treads on tip-toes. One who is afraid to upset John. He told John that his heart rate became irregular when he fainted. He follows John now as if he might shatter and disappear entirely. John is not sure if the arrythmia was a result of his physical state, or from the shock of learning the truth about Mary, or Sherlock's confession.It's possible it was all three. It doesn't matter. What matters is that he's never seen an attentive Sherlock like this before.

Every day, Sherlock takes John on deck and hovers over him. John doesn't know what to do with any of it. He should. He should be raging from the rooftops (or palm fronds) about Mary's betrayal. He looks up into the beautiful blue sky and feels hate. He thinks what if...what if she would have pulled that trigger? Mary. He'd heard it himself. In her own voice. Cold. Calculated. A hired assassin. Contracted to kill his best friend. His...

God. What is he supposed to do with all of this?

He sweats, thinking about how he actually joked about her shooting Sherlock through the heart. It could have happened. She could still do it.

He sits in the shade of a palm and watches what Sherlock refers to as "complex ecosystems" and wonders about her motives from the beginning. Was she as surprised as he that Sherlock was alive or had she been waiting for him to reappear? What was her interest in John? Was he just a way for her to get to Sherlock? Compliment him, spend time with the poor grieving sap. Bide her time, wait for Sherlock to come to her so she could put a bullet through his heart? But only after the wedding. She needed her wedding planner, of course.

What must she have thought when he came to that table with his stupid mustache? Why didn't she kill him then? Was she wondering what he'd do? How much he knew about her? Was it that with Moriarty's empire taken down, she had no one to report to and no hit to fulfill?

God, it's all too much for John to take in. That she would have killed Sherlock. That she pretended to be someone she wasn't. That...

That Sherlock cares for him. Deeply. He sees it now. The concern, the love. Last night, he had crawled into the bed next to him, carefully leaving space between them. John knows that the next move is his.

As usual, Sherlock sits not far from him in the sand with a long blade of grass in his hand. John wonders how he ever missed it. Did he just choose to ignore it? Why? What was he afraid of?

Sherlock smiles over at him, then stands, slapping the sand from his shorts and bare legs.

"Time to hike back to the ketch and change those bandages," Sherlock says in that rich baritone that never fails to make John shiver. Sherlock steps over a log and a coconut crab skitters away. His feet sink in the sand, and he extends his hand. John smiles up and takes it, letting Sherlock pull him to his feet.

He's been with men a few times. He's sucked cock, bottomed, and topped. He's loved a man before. He'd even been open to the idea with Sherlock in the very beginning, but then Sherlock had told him unequivocally that he was married to his work.

Then the Game got in the way. The longer they played the Game, the further the idea of them was pushed away and the easier it became to ignore it. The elephant, however, never did leave the room.

Now they were on an island together. No one there to know. No one there to judge. No one there but them.

He walks just a few feet before the world begins to spin. Sherlock is there to steady him. Sherlock would have made a damned good nurse. He lets John lean on him as they walk down the dock and onto the ketch. The boards creak beneath their feet but John's not so worried he'll fall through anymore. John wonders how many have used it. What were their lives like? He thinks of the novel and the couple who were murdered. They were moored here on this very lagoon.

Sherlock guides him to his cabin and helps him sit down on the bed.

As he lies back, he looks up into Sherlock's face. His sunburn has mellowed, a change from the creamy white complexion. The freckles that are sprinkled across those cheekbones bleed together, and red highlights shimmer in his dark hair.

Sherlock scoots onto the bed beside him. His lips part as he carefully pulls up the corner of a piece of tape with his fingers. He even has freckles on his lips, John realizes as he watches Sherlock's teeth nip them in concentration. His long fingers are freckled. They gently tug the tape that sticks to the fine hairs on John's leg.

After he's removed the tape from John's bandages, Sherlock delicately lifts the gauze and dabs the antibiotic ointment with care onto the wounds. It's all healing well thanks to Sherlock's ministrations. Finally Sherlock lays down fresh sterile gauze and tapes it securely to John's leg. His fingers caress and linger longer than necessary. Their eyes meet. The green in Sherlock's irises swims and swirls like the water in the emerald lagoon. John is lost, and he wants so much to be found.

Sherlock no longer nips at his lips. Instead, they slowly open and close, and John's eyes fix on one of the larger freckles on his top lip. It's so quiet in the cabin that he can hear each steady breath Sherlock takes as he leans down closer to him on the bed, his eyes on John's lips as well.

"John?" A question. Sherlock is asking his permission. John knows he is. John blinks his answer. It's not Morse code, but it means yes. Sherlock nods slowly and bends down until their parted lips almost touch. John sits up and presses their lips together. His heart beats hard and fast, but it's regular.

John wants to make sure he doesn't do something as humiliating as passing out again. He's conscious that Sherlock is monitoring the kiss as he cautiously parts John's lips with the tip of his tongue. John's moan of approval brings Sherlock's mouth completely over John's. If he needs to revive John, he's ready.

Mouth to mouth resuscitation has never felt so good.

His insides warm and he feels the familiar flutter of his heart during a first kiss. Not something to worry about, John tells himself. His breathing becomes rapid as his own tongue swirls around Sherlock's. 

His mind stutters along with this heart. It's only his own excitement: God, oh God, he's kissing Sherlock. He's actually kissing Sherlock.

He's had so much water these last few days he hasn't been thirsty. But now he is more thirsty than he's ever been in his life. These lips, this mouth, that tongue. He must drink them in. 

He works himself into such a state that Sherlock pulls back in alarm.

"John," he says. "Your pulse. Your heart. We have to stop. What if you went into ventricular fibrillation? I haven't sailed in years, but if I must, I can. I can get you help."

"I'm not in any danger. This is just a symptom from all that I've been through. My heart is strong. I've never had a problem before. Ever. I had a stress test not long ago. I was fine. I'm healing."

"But John..."

"After all this time, I finally get to kiss you. Don't you think that's reason enough for my heart to flutter?"

"But there are other...things that may be more strenuous..." Sherlock looks down at their bodies on the bed.

"You mean sex?" John's voice cracks.

"Sex. Intercourse. I would like to have it someday. With you. Soon."

"We have time. We're stranded on an island with just one bed," John grins. "Only the sea will tell."

"Then you read it, but it's _And the Sea Will Tell_. I packed the book for you along with those on flora and fauna. I'm surprised you found time to read it with all of the distractions."

"I read it before I became distracted."

"Then you know there are twenty separate inlets here. It's a respectable true crime novel. As far as that particular genre is concerned, it's well-researched by the lawyer who defended one of those accused of the murder. His logic was impeccable."

"They never found the other body."

"And it's unlikely they ever will. Hence the title."

"I'm surprised from what I'd read that no one has visited here since I arrived. One of the research bungalows not far from the dock is locked up tight. From what you said the first day, I assume that Mycroft has something to do with that."

"Mycroft. Must we talk about him?"

"Shhh." John lays his finger on Sherlock's lips. "I won't bring him up again if you'll kiss me some more."

Sherlock splays his fingers across John's face with the same soft care he's used to tend his wounds. John lets Sherlock lead, wants Sherlock to lead in all of this. He firmly puts all doubts aside: this lonely island paradise, this boat with one bed. He's finally with Sherlock. Why question anything beyond that?

Sherlock's lips are even softer than before as they whisp against his. He doesn't think he's ever coveted a kiss more. If he had a mind palace like Sherlock's, he'd save it in a special room. He hopes that's what Sherlock is doing right now.

Sherlock's hands travel down his bare back, caressing, roaming, exploring. He knows Sherlock well enough to tell he's cataloging every small mole, every tiny scar. It only endears Sherlock to him more. He does the same and slips his hands around Sherlock's waist to pull him closer. Sherlock rests his other hand over John's heart and opens his mouth to deepen the kiss. John's heart races, but it's pounding a steady and strong rhythm beneath Sherlock's hand.

He's hard and leaking into his swim trunks, and doesn't give a damn about it. He doesn't care that Sherlock knows how hard he is for him. He wants him to know. He rubs against him, sending a shiver into Sherlock that John loves. I did that, he thinks.

They kiss and cuddle. John can't recall the last time he'd cuddled someone, not like this. Maybe in uni? Maybe never. They grow lazy and slow in the heat of the afternoon on the bed. Sherlock's hair smells of sea and sand. John thinks it's not so bad being locked away from the rest of the world. He regrets his harsh words in the messages that he shoved into the bottle. Sherlock did this to save him. Of course that could all be Stockholm syndrome. He's smart enough to know that, but he has a history with this man that defies definition. God knows he's written enough blog posts trying to explain what they are to each other.

He falls asleep to the rhythm of water lapping against the side of the ketch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another lovely chapter that I owe much thanks to recently_folded for help (including John's injuries which she had me lessen the severity).


	3. Chapter 3

Each day they walk. Each day farther. John feels more and more like himself. Or unlike. He only knows that he's happy.

They continue sleeping next to each other. They've only kissed and held each other—Sherlock's still treating John as if he might break.

It's a lazy afternoon after two days of rain when they decide to walk to the airstrip and check out the ocean side of Palmyra.

"You've read the island's rather notorious history," Sherlock says, sipping tea from a thermos as they walk. It seems like blasphemy, but it's the only way to keep the bugs out. "But it's had many other visitors."

"Pirates."

Sherlock smiles like a little boy on Christmas. "Yes, John, pirates. A Spanish pirate ship, the _Esperanza_. That's where I got the name for the ketch. There were shipwrecks on the reefs here. They were believed to have buried their booty of silver and gold stolen from Incan temples somewhere on this island. The story has it that all of them died but for one survivor."

"Quite the tale."

"There are also quarantined areas on the east end with unexploded mines from WWII."

John recalls the fences and cryptic warning signs he'd seen when he found the sea turtle pond during his first week here. So many dangers for a seeming paradise.

It's beyond John how Sherlock can hold the thermos, push through the deep foliage, and be dripping in sweat yet look so...hot? Sexy? John shook his head. The tropical heat must be making him horny.

"You haven't asked about what happened to Mary," Sherlock says, pointing to his feet. A gecko skitters off between the leaves. "After she realized you weren't really kidnapped. In fact, you haven't asked very many questions at all. That's not like you, John."

John wonders why Sherlock has waited to bring this up. Why wait until they were in the middle of the most heavily-forested part of the island to ask him this when he could have asked while they were shut in the boat during that monsoon of a downpour?

"Well, I didn't because I do have some idea what the answers are," John says. Easy enough to call off the wedding. Um...just tell everyone John's been abducted, which for most people would be a bit shocking, but in John's life, it's a regular occurrence.

He supposes he can understand why Sherlock has waited. It seems safe to ask in this place that's so far removed from civilization. "You may as well tell me the rest now, though."

"At first I think she actually believed you'd been kidnapped. I was most convincing. And it was true. You _were_ kidnapped, even if not entirely as she was envisioning. But by the second day, she began to have suspicions. It was Geoff's fault. He should be better at lying. By the third day, she was only pretending to believe. A splendid piece of acting on her part, but it didn't take her much longer to drop the pretenses and confront me. She'd have made an excellent consulting detective."

"And later?"

"We confronted her."

John stops. "We?" He scratches his chin. It was time to think about shaving. "Really. You and Mycroft? Greg? "

"And Irene Adler. Mycroft thought it best I not do it alone. Well, he was afraid she'd shoot me. I usually ignore his suggestions, but Irene agreed that it was best we should meet her from a position of strength."

"It's not far, now. We should have walked along the shore of the lagoon, though. It's easier going."

"Yes, but we needed to avoid the sensitive wildlife area. We promised not to go within 30 meters of it."

"Hmm."

Sherlock slaps another mosquito. John's secretly happy that they seem to really love his blood and leave John alone. Actually, he can see why they view him as a preferable meal. Tender flesh. Sweet tasting.

"We left her without options. She had no choice but to take the offer, considering the alternative."

John wondered what that was. A bullet in the head? Or locked away without a key? Sherlock must read his thoughts and shakes his head. He removes his hat, wipes the sweat off his brow with his arm, and set it back on. 

"Mycroft wouldn't dirty his own hands. He planned to simply hand her off to some people who were very angry with her. She took Mycroft's other offer. Better than having her fingernails torn out one by one and be tortured to death. She's in South America living comfortably under a new identity. Rather a cozy outcome for someone who planned to kill me. But I was magnanimous, considering." He looked at John. "Mycroft has enough on her past activities to keep her in check."

"I suppose Mary isn't even her real name."

They pass one of the bungalows that are scattered about the island. They must not be far from the airstrip now.

"No, it's not. We were unable to ascertain what her real name is. Most of the back stories for her identities fall apart before they reach back to her childhood. We aren't sure where she came from, but Mycroft suspects she was originally American."

John stops. "Looks like a clearing, and I think that's the airstrip ahead," John says, pointing.

Sherlock carefully slips his empty thermos into the small knapsack he carries for water and first-aid supplies. He always comes prepared on their excursions.

"I left you a spy novel you still haven't read."

"Yes. I was saving it."

"I won't spoil the story for you."

"Yeah? Thank you for that." John pushes aside some of the branches of what he recognizes as a native tree. Sherlock ducks to keep from being swatted by a branch's rebound.

They step into the clearing around the airstrip. The vista of the Pacific with the rich navy blues and turquoise of the reef makes John feel like a speck against its majesty. He thrusts his hands into the pockets of his khaki swim trunks and sighs.

"The rotting eelgrass gives out a pungent smell of iodine," Sherlock says. "It's particularly strong here. I wish I had thought to pack my microscope and some supplies. I'd love to do some tests on its decomposition. There're so many possibilities."

Shouldn't he feel more loss of his and Mary's relationship? He was going to marry her. He's angry, furious inside, yet as the ocean breeze ruffles through his hair and his feet sink in the sand next to Sherlock's at the edge of the airstrip, he finds himself letting go and doesn't care.

Not far beyond the reef, the ocean parts and water spurts up into the air. "Is that a...whale?" John gasps.

Sherlock practically shouts. "It is!" Sherlock's excitement is contagious. He races down the airstrip with John jogging at his heels—as though that would bring them any closer to what's happening beyond the reef.

Sherlock slows so that John can keep up, and they halt at the end of the airstrip to stare out at the bright marine blue. In the distance, the whale continues to splash and dive.

"It must be feeding," Sherlock says, a little winded but voice filled with awe. He's bouncing up and down like a kid at a carnival. John breathes hard next to him. His leg hurts a bit, but it felt good racing after Sherlock again. Sherlock smiles fondly at him.

"I can't tell positively what kind of whale from here, but I believe it's a humpback. They migrate through the tropical Pacific to feed up before breeding. It's magnificent."

"Yeah." He wants to say it's Sherlock who is magnificent. He almost does.

"And there was also Magnussen to contend with." Sherlock picks the thread of his explanation back up, still watching the whale. "After all, Mary couldn't really agree with our plans as long as he held her past in his hands. I removed some files from Mycroft's office. He put on a show that he wasn't happy with me taking them, but he'd left them out for me. He expected it. Mycroft planned for Irene and me to break into Appledore, Magnussen's estate, where he kept his secrets locked away."

"And you didn't."

Sherlock shakes his head, eyes fixed on where the whale last dove. "All of those secrets. Do you know where he kept them? I of all people should have guessed."

John squints, waiting for the whale to reappear, as Sherlock waits for John's question. "Where?"

Finally, Sherlock turns. "In his head."

John shakes his own. "So all he held over people was locked away inside his mind? In what, some sort of Mind Palace like you have? Hardly something a person can use as evidence."

"In his business, one doesn't need evidence; one needs only innuendo."

John nods. All he had to do was print it in every tabloid for the world to read and people would believe it.

"But Mary did agree. How did you get him to drop it?" John notices Sherlock's shoulders have tensed and his jaw twitches. "I don't understand."

"He didn't agree. In fact, he threatened the wrong person."

Sherlock's eyes have become dark, dangerous. John knows that look. He'd seen it in the poor lighting of that pool with Moriarty, but never in the light of day. "What are you leaving out?"

"The real reason why I'm here." He stops eyes on the horizon. "I'm afraid I may have killed Magnussen."

The crash of waves breaking on the reef makes John think he's misheard Sherlock. John swallows. 

"I don't believe I heard you correctly. You did what?"

"I shot him. In front of witnesses. It was the only real solution. No more secrets inside his head. I wiped his hard drive. It wasn't really my fault that he couldn't survive the deletion."

Sherlock killed a man. Not that John hasn't done the same for Sherlock. He's suddenly unsure what to say to him. Thank you? 

"John, you must know how I feel about you." He steps closer, and his hands fumble at the buttons on front of John's faded blue cotton shirt. "How deeply I care for you. What I feel, what I've always felt, is far more than friendship. From the moment we met, I knew. I denied myself, but I knew."

"Yeah, I guess we're two right idiots." He places a hand over Sherlock's.

Sherlock smiles. It's a slow smile, one that carries pain and pulls at the corner of his lips. A smile that calls to John and pulls at a hidden place deep inside his chest. One that makes John wrap his arms around Sherlock and want to never, ever let go.

Sherlock groans as he tucks John's head under his chin.

"Not many people confess their love right after telling them they killed a man for them," John muses.

"Ours is an unconventional relationship."

Chuckling, John tips his head up to kiss him. Sherlock's lips cover his, and what begin as the usual soft, delicate pecks grow deeper.

"The sand. It will get in everything," John says when they surface for a breath. " _Everything_." 

John pulls Sherlock back away from the beach. "The landing strip?" John suggests.

"Too hard. I don't want it to damage your leg further."

"Here, along the edge of the strip, there's ground cover. Not too sandy," John says.

Sherlock's hands slide down John's chest, to his navel and lower. John holds his breath. He's touching him. Finally, really touching him.

"Any sand is too sandy," Sherlock says. "It would be miserable. I don't want to chance opening that wound. But we did pass that bungalow."

They race to the edge of the air strip and turn to take a last look out at the ocean.

"Look, John," Sherlock points out at the ocean. "There it is again! Do you think it's swimming off to its mate?"

John gasps as Sherlock pulls him in for another knee-trembling kiss.

"Bungalow it is," John says, and they push on through the dense vegetation. It's not too far and Sherlock makes short work of the lock. The inside looks much the same as the larger research hut that's near the boat.

They find an old wooden cot and Sherlock tests it out, sitting on it and bouncing. John takes a seat next to him.

"Sturdy enough. It should hold us."

Sherlock's hand returns to where it left off on the beach. John's cock leaps in excitement at the attention, and Sherlock's hand jerks away, but John clamps his hand over Sherlock's.

"Please," John says.

Sherlock's fingers stretch over his length, measuring with delicious pressure. John falls back on to the narrow cot and stretches his legs out off the end, and his cock tents up in appreciation. 

Sherlock takes his right hand from John's hip and cradles the back of John's neck. His other hand slips inside his swim trunks. The moment his fingers find John's cock, John groans. Sherlock wraps his fingers around him.  
  
“My blogger, my friend," he whispers. ”And my lover."  
  
John tips his pelvis up into his hand, his cock almost slipping from Sherlock's grip, but Sherlock takes a firmer hold and begins to stroke him. John stares up into those eyes that are so changeable like the waters—glimmering greens and vast blues that turn from still to tremulous then turbulent.

John shivers out a sigh of pleasure as he thrusts back into Sherlock's hand.

There's no need to be quiet, no need to hide from the world. No need to cover his mouth to stiflethe sounds of his pleasure. All he can think about are Sherlock's slender fingers on his cock and where else he might put them. John turns his head and looks into the depths of Sherlock's eyes. God, can he tell what he wants?

In answer, Sherlock's fingers move between his legs and brush over his pucker. John groans, "Yes" as he ruts against John's thigh and moans.

Sherlock pushes into his arse, probing inside, his own hips keeping up their own rhythm. The angle they're at is awkward and the penetration isn’t quite as deep as John would have liked, but it's Sherlock, and his long talented fingers. Hearing Sherlock panting and feeling the heat of Sherlock's cock press against his leg has to be one of the hottest experiences of John's life. It's not long before the friction builds and Sherlock caresses that sweet spot inside John. John takes his own cock in his hand and begins to pump.

Sherlock eyes grow wide as he watches John's hand work himself. “Yes! Come, John,” he pants.

John does. Hard. Enough to spurt out over his own hand and drive a high breathy whine from his lips to echo off the walls. The sight of Sherlock watching him come, the curve of his lips, those dark curls damp on his forehead—makes John's heart skip-hammer in his chest.

Sherlock watches him closely. “Are you okay?” He asks.

"Better than okay," John says, giddy. He looks between them at Sherlock's erection underneath his shorts.  
  
John instinctively reaches out and traces the length of his cock, over and over and over until Sherlock arches up, quivering. He reaches inside and squeezes his cock. It's long, hard and smooth. He watches Sherlock's eyes flutter as he comes, his spunk coating the inside of his shorts and John's hand.

John wipes his hand off on his pants before he slides his palms down Sherlock's hips. With a yawn, Sherlock reaches around John and folds him into his chest. The cot dips down and they're snug together. John's heart staggers into an even rhythm.

“Okay?” Sherlock checks again.

John nods. "Perfect. Brilliant. Anytime you want to do that again, I'm up for it.”  
  
Sherlock beams at him like John has just complimented him at a crime scene. The similarity should be disturbing to John, but it's natural. Right.  
  
John lifts one hand to cup Sherlock's face and kisses the bridge of his nose. There's a particular freckle there that he suddenly finds enchanting. John laughs. Now, he's pining over cherry-brown spots on his nose.  
  
“John, are you certain you are alright?”  
  
“Oh, yeah, sure, I'm great,” John says. “We're here together. Look at us. It's all great.”  
  
“I think it's time to get out of here.” Sherlock slaps a mosquito. "The little bastards are even finding me in here."  
  
“Yeah, you are getting eaten up,” John says. "Although it might not all be by the mosquitoes. There's other things to consider. Later."

Sherlock blushes. John laughs, but another part of him can't wait to taste him. They need to get out of this blasted sand trap first. Despite their precautions, he feels as though every niche and cranny is gritty with the stuff.

"What is it a wise man once said? 'It is only when a mosquito lands on your testicles that you realize there is always a way to solve problems without using violence.'"

"Very funny," Sherlock laughs, pulling on his swim trunks. "Especially since you're not their favored meal."

"Let's head back then."

\-------------------------

"I think I hear...people," John says as they near the research station. 

"You do," he says, his voice hushed. They both walk tread more quietly.

"I thought you said Mycroft was making sure no one came here."

"This is a destination where people come to get away from the world, just as we have," Sherlock explains, poking through the vegetation of the thickest part of the jungle. "They sail here and squat. They don't always ask. I am not excusing, Mycroft, but it would be easy to miss a smaller live-aboard sailboat approaching, although his surveillance should have noticed when anyone sailed through the channel."

"So, it could be anybody."

"I know you are concerned that it may be Mary. Let me put your mind to rest. It is not."

"You are sure."

"Positive."

"She is in South America. Mycroft made certain."

John can't imagine the Mary he knows sailing to some deserted island armed to wait in ambush for them. First of all, if she is really that good, they'd never hear her coming. Unless someone is distracting them so she can pick them off. It doesn't really come together in his mind: his Mary, a sniper in hiding behind some trees.

"The last intelligence Mycroft received on her, she was living in Belize, then she fell off the map. It's entirely unlikely she would be here."

"You know what's even more unlikely?" John asks, pointing as he steps out into the clearing. "Her." Standing there in linen walking shorts, crisp cotton blouse, and Jackie Ohh Ray-Bans is Anthea.

"The things I do for your brother," she says, raising an eyebrow. "No signal anywhere."

"Huh. So you'll actually have to acknowledge our existence and talk to us," John says.

"I believe that's why Mycroft sent me to this godforsaken place." She crosses her arms and frowns at the two of them, then wrinkles her nose. "Mycroft is convinced this is the only way to pass on a sensitive message."

"What?" John says. "What's happened?"

"Your brother has tried to protect your whereabouts, but it seems there's been a leak. Your brother needs more time to come up with a convincing cover for the untimely death of Mr. Magnuessen. It's very delicate work manipulating the media." She swats a mosquito off of her arm.

"I'm sure it is, but Mycroft has had so much practice at it," John says, crossing his arms.

"And then there's the tedious job of keeping track of your fiancée..." She rolls her eyes and waves away several more mosquitoes.

  
"But you two have faced Moriarty together. What's one more assassin?" She sighs. "Well, Jim only gave orders. He may have had a mind like a trap, but he couldn't shoot a man off a moving yacht at over 900 yards."

"She's messing with you," Sherlock says. "Mary isn't anywhere near here."

"And _she_ never even wanted to speak to me before," John replies. "Now she's messing with me."

"I need to do _something_ to entertain myself." She narrows her eyes at John and looks at him as if he's the stupidest man alive. "However trivial. Something to distract me from these other insects."

"It's the perfume. They seem to be drawn to you and away from me. Please stand here."

"Not any longer than necessary." She slaps a sealed envelope into Sherlock's hand. "No other way to convey your brother's message in these primitive surroundings where one becomes one giant insect bite, ," she shivers.

Sherlock's finger slips inside the corner and tears it open. He reads it, then hesitates before handing it to John.

Most of it contains what Anthea had already told them, plus a bit more detail as to how he was going to manipulate the shooting. Mycroft's final words were to "be prepared to leave with Anthea."

"When are you leaving?" John asks her.

"In the morning." She turns. She jingles the keys to the station. "At first light they will be back to pick us up." She retreats inside, taking most of the swarm of mosquitos with her.

\-------------------------

He can't sleep and it seems as though neither can Sherlock. John tumbles out of his empty berth. Through the hatch he sees Sherlock sitting on the foredeck in the moonlight. His knees are drawn up, and he's hugging them into his chest.

“It's late,” John says stepping out on the deck quietly. He sits down next to Sherlock and dangles his legs over the edge of the _Esperanza_. "Not long before daybreak. We should go to bed. At least try to get some rest.”

Sherlock stares out into the shimmering lagoon, but shifts closer to John. The nearly-full moon casts their shadows into the water below.

  
“I'm coming with you,” John says. "From now on, what we do, we do together."  
  
Sherlock eyes follow John's hand as he rests it on top of Sherlock's knee. 

“Not long ago, I couldn't wait to leave this place. Now I never want to." John gives Sherlock's knee a squeeze. "But I will. If you must, I will too."

Sherlock spins around, facing John, and cups his chin, brushing his finger through his beard. "There is something more I wish to do with you, here while we're alone together."

“Oh God, yes,” John murmurs, leaning in to kiss him.He tastes like tea and salt water. He feels an ache between his legs, a need.  
  
Sherlock’s hands move boldly down to capture that need. "Bed," he whispers.  
  
John takes a shaky breath and nods.  
  
They stumble across the deck, kissing. Once inside, they shed their clothes as they bump their naked way through the cabin to the berth.

Sherlock's fingers stroke John’s cock up and down his length, rubbing foreskin against glans with a steady rhythm.  
  
”On the bed," Sherlock says, his hand slowing as he follows John and spreads himself next to him, pushing one of the pillows aside to make more room.  
  
He takes hold of John’s hand tightly, fingers flexing against the dense curve at the heel of John’s thumb.

John moves into the middle of the mattress, watching Sherlock's eyes as they scan over his body. He rolls over, then crawls up onto his hands and knees and lets his shoulders sink until he’s on his elbows, head bent down and face almost flat to the bed.  
  
He wants this. Sherlock inside him, filling him. Sherlock kneels behind him. The air around them is hot and humid, but full of Palmyra's perfumes: the sweet flowers, the sand and sea. All flood his senses. Even his own breathing mingles with the sound of the water in the lagoon lapping against the side of the boat.

John rises up and turns his head to see an unsure Sherlock biting his bottom lip. He's stroking his own cock, watching John.

“I need you,” John says, and his whole body shivers in agreement.

  
Sherlock shifts tobetween John's legs, and long fingers spread apart his arse. The lotion they've been using for hand jobs is cool against his pucker. Then Sherlock's long form bends over to kiss him. It's off-kilter, messy, awkward, and incredibly arousing. His hands roam down John’s side and around to his waiting cock while his other hand brushes over his pucker and pushes inside.

  
John bites the pillow and shifts his knees in closer. Sherlock slips another finger inside, opening him. His other hand skims over John's hip to steady himself. His fingers pop out, and he takes hold of the base of his cock and pushes the tip against John's opening. It's been some time since John bottomed for anyone but he feels relaxed, centered.

One push and John's body yields. He hears Sherlock gasp. John groans, his fingernails dig into the sheets.  
  
“Oh fuck,” John says, as Sherlock begins to move inside him, slow calculated strokes at first, but progressing, lengthening into a long, deep tidal motion.  
  
“John?” He's checking, forever checking.

”I'm fine. Better than fine. I'm bloody fantastic."

Sherlock snaps his hips.

“Oh God,” John cries, his body quivers as he struggles to stay upright on his knees. He feels like he's being pushed across the bed by Sherlock's cock.  
  
“I love you,” Sherlock breathes out. “I fucking love you, John Watson.” He pulls out and flips John over so that they're facing.

A shattered sound of desperation escapes Sherlock's lips as he pushes John's knees apart. "I need to see you," he says. "I need look into your face."

He slides back inside. Both are sweaty, skin wet pressed chest to chest. Sherlock's eyes are like fire as he drops his head to lick across the scar on John's shoulder. He raises up and thrusts his hips as his eyes burn with intensity. John gasps.

“Tell me you love me,” Sherlock pleads. "Tell me you love me.”  
  
“I love you, I love you." John pushes his hips up to meet Sherlock's.

  
Sherlock laughs, and it's bright and playful. "My John. My John, forever."

Sherlock arms hold him up as he pumps fast. Beneath John whimpers and moans, not holding back.  
  
"Come," John says breathlessly.

Sherlock's hands fumble for John's hands as his orgasm swells over him. Finding them, he twists their fingers together, his weight joined in their hands. A moment more, John feels his own body come apart in slow, sweet spasms.  
  
John can barely lift his head after. Sherlock is still inside him, and John can see each eyelash, each freckle, each scar on that face he loves more than his own life. He sees the flecks of green and blue and gold dance in his eyes.  
  
It’s almost dawn.

"I guess we should pack."

"We don't need to," Sherlock says, and hugs him tighter. "We're taking _Esperanza_ out."

"Really? You're going to sail her?" John laughs. "This was your plan along. Get me alone on an island and have your way with me, then sail away with me over the horizon. You didn't have to kidnap me to get this."

"But it was so much more dramatic," Sherlock says.

"The name. It means hope, expectation. I am such a frigging idiot."

"Everyone is John. You're just not as great a one as everyone else."

"I actually believe I'm going to miss this place."

"We can return. I enjoy being stranded with you."

"It's been...enlightening," John says, kissing the freckle on the tip of his nose. "But as for returning to the way it was before, I want what we have now. This." He says waving between them.

Sherlock reaches under the bed and pulls out John's old message bottle.

"I noticed that you took the old messages out and replaced them with a new note," Sherlock says. "I thought we could throw it in together when we leave."

Later that morning, as they watch Palmyra grow smaller behind them, John and Sherlock throw the bottle out into the ocean. _Esperanza_ begins to bite into the ocean swell as they trim her sails for the long beat back up to Hawaii.

A year and three days later, someone posts the bottle to them. The same "please forward note inside to Sherlock Holmes, 221B Baker Street, London" is printed neatly with the same nub of a pencil. The same yellowed notebook paper is used, but the letter inside is very different:

> Dearest Sherlock,
> 
> Forgive me for the harsh words I've said and may say again. I may not be good at speaking words of love, but know that my heart is yours alone. It took me far too long to realize that there is no one on this earth for me but you. You are in my thoughts, my dreams. You are my life. If sweet words should ever fail me, know you are and always will be my Sherlock.
> 
> I love you.
> 
> Your John

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on Tumblr: [**elwinglyre Tumblr**](https://elwinglyre.tumblr.com/)!


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